O c t a v o
by Commonwealths of Neverland
Summary: Having acquired wealth from Corona's tiara, Eugene has restarted his life as a solitary aristocrat in foreign lands. Tonight, he's attending a Nordic queen's coronation for sketchy purposes of his own, but he's not the only serpent in the grass. (Eugene x Elsa x Hans)
1. Prologue: The Reader

**❄_. _Prologue: ✏The Reader**

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If there's one thing you should know, it's that I am an original work.

I have successfully authored my own individuality, blue-penciling any errors in myself that would have stopped me from becoming the living, breathing manifestation of my own dreams _(but this, ladies and gents, is just between you and me)_. Because the world is peopled with rough drafts and D-list novels, I don't see bodies and faces, but characters and stories. Timeworn cliches, caricatured depth, lackluster dialogue, and indented heartbeats with underwhelming narratives that never break the fourth wall.

People don't dream about whether it's more fun to be a run-off sentence than it is to let periods and commas dictate where expression stops; they're content with being shut inside parentheses and punctuated with, _"The End." _This kind of typecasting makes everyone everywhere an easy read.

And of course, that makes it that much easier to con them out of their pearl necklaces.

_ "Hi." _

But I can't read her.

_ "You look beautiful..." _

I can't even remove her from the shelf.

_ "So...! This is what a party looks like."_

It's not that she's a closed book; she tries to be that and is working hard at it.

_ "And what is that amazing smell?"_

The problem is that she's a lighthouse with automatic lamp changers, leaving you blind with the afterimage of the smile before. And the thing with the chocolate...

_ "Chocolate~!"_

...Really?

_"This is so nice!" _

This _Mother Theresa_ has gone through more metamorphoses than a caterpillar, taking turns being warm towards her sister, cold after her touch, timid in the chapel, smug before the ballroom, accessible to her guests, and inaccessible to her suitors. Every twitch in the fingers is contradicted by the control in her voice; the breathy lilt in her speech is contradicted by the sauciness in her sarcasm ― the cackle to her laugh ― the soften of it when she hides her mouth behind her hand.

Every action reveals a new, unexpected layer, each one peeking out from underneath _what's supposed to be_ and revealing _what could be_ before scuttling back into _what is_...or _isn't_. She is transmitting so many mixed signals that all I'm getting is static. When her own freedom begins to frighten her, she's back to curling those gloved hands inside her chest, arranging them into a perfect "V" of straight control and regality.

_"Thank you, only I don't dance..."_

Yet I swore I saw her drumming her fingers against her knuckles just now?

_"But my sister does."_

This is seriously like trying to read a book in a carriage and getting wagon-sick. Her format isn't totally anchored down by periods and commas, but she's trying hard to stay in between the brackets of her own script.

_ "I wish it could be like this all the time." _

__ "Me, too..."__

Therefore, she is not a closed book; she's working hard to be that.

_ "..But it can't..."_

The problem is that her pages are flying rapidly, and neither I nor she can hold them down when that window flies open.

_ "Well, why not, it—"_

_ "It **just**...can't."_

She glances in my direction with heavy eyes, looking past me and somewhere distant...

I wonder if she blue-pencils her own errors before she faces people, too...?

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_"i had a dream of a porcelain girl __who called herself 'disease,' __and when i tried __to shatter her __it was only killing me..." __**~*Intricately-ordinary, "Existentialism and Shoddy Metaphors"**_

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	2. Part I: The Masquerader

**Part I: ** **Masquerader**

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_'__I know that you were built hollow like __the porcelain dolls you grew up with. __Cold to the touch. __Perfectly fake. __Shattered.' ___**~ intricately-ordinary, "Why We Pity Angels"**__

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"Would you grant me the honor of dancing with you, Your Majesty?"

With a twitch and a smile, the poor lad is sent back to Mama after a polite dismissal. The young bucks in here always return looking shipwrecked after a visit to the queen's column during the ballroom waltz. It's not that she's cynical and dismissive to strangers — she's too well bred for that — but she's so gentle with her rejections, that there's no recovering from it for the snotty welps of the lot. She definitely won't give them the satisfaction of being off-handed, because at least there's a _reaction_ in that; therefore it comes off as a genuine disinterest; that kind, ladylike disregard thumbsuckers can't stand.

"It's a pity."

I didn't recognize the owner of this vapid commentary _(I swear)_, and I certainly didn't plan on tracking him _(I double swear)_, but my curiosity was stronger than my resistance, so naturally, I caved. The person I found standing behind me was a young noble with wealth practically dripping from the bootstraps; his face was asserting, sensitive, and sickeningly _goodie-two-shoes_, but something about his posture looked performed.

"Is it true that no one can move her?" he asked his company, wearing a sheepish smile that looked more like a painted on imitation of one as he entertained the sitters on the outdoor patio.

"She is not to be moved at all," whispered his interlocutor as he slicked a caterpillar-eyebrow while staring at the queen. Do people know they look ridculously suspicious when they do that? "Her maidenliness is like a halo standing between herself and wooers, but I sincerely believe there's more to it than this. After all, she was the most unwilling sister to show her face three years ago, and I would not at all be surprised if that halo acted as more of a forcefield."

"Queen Elsa is indeed a closed book." The young noble ducked a chuckle behind his fist with a sugary voice that will, pray tell, give him cavities in the morning. "I don't think anyone can read her climate."

Seriously? Sunny with a chance of_ sod off;_ she's not a summer in _Britain_, for Christ's sake.

"Yes, well, she can not be so beautiful for nothing," the eldest scoffed, taking a long drag on his cigar before exhaling through his nose with a cocky look. "It would be a disservice."

As if hearing a cattle call, other men came crying, and sooner than later I realized that I was eavesdropping on cows, all drunk and stupid with their gold-beaded _Venetian_ glasses in one hand and superficial lexicons in the other:

"I attempted to ask her for a dance, but nothing came of it."

"Perhaps because she knows princes are only speaking to her with an agenda, so it would make sense to just nod and smile."

"Make 'sense'? Exactly who's side are you on?"

"The side of the angels."

"Save me the Christianity; you've been drinking with devils all night."

"Your comment is absurd because the agenda of her suitors benefits her alone."

"Yes, yes — she is vague in some way, and there is something babylike about her eyes when she speaks or goes quiet, but such reserve is suitable for a queen. She must lack the charm of appearing attainable. There's a reason why the men keep their eyes down when they bow to her, all the while holding that blush in their cheeks when she smiles in approval. To show their instinctual attraction to a crowned ingenue — well, that would be to disgrace not only her position, but her wholesomeness."

"You've all been hiding from your wives behind wineglasses and chocolate fondue bowls just to rave about her "architectural proportions." Where's this "rule of respect" been keeping itself?"

Honestly? These arguments are all completely irrelevant. The question they should've been asking themselves is _who's idea was it to put her in that slinky gown_? While I have to thank them, aren't we supposed to be sold the illusion that she eats grapes with _Saint Mary_? If Arendelle wanted men to gaze upon her with virtue, then they should've sacked her in a poncho, not giving her 34C's their own skintight premiere.

Not that I plan on filing a complaint to the office in charge. Note: please continue doing what you're doing.

"True; it is mandatory that she carry the air of _Iounna_, and that's all well to do, but what of her duty as a _woman_? Will no man father children for the throne?"

"This kingdom looks upon her like a unicorn who's finally galloped out of the woods, but beauty only withholds hearts for five minutes before they are starved from her inability to connect with them, so suitors will only leave with the same feeling."

"Then where is her sister? The one who had her throwing her head back and laughing like a carefree hostess? It's because of her that so many believed they could step into her heart just the same."

"It won't help shake a man's opinion on her. Princess Anna can win the love of an entire army with her genuine heart, but her sister creates a stage of surreality in a room because her presence is so beautifully out of contact with the real, frustrating world others must live in. Guests have to strain their eyes and polish their glasses to get a good look at her character."

"Dear Gwaine, what are you trying to say? I'm not one for Shakespeare, so please use vocabulary normally."

"I am saying that she doesn't participate in the real world."

"Yes, I've gotten that half, but what are you _saying_?"

"He's saying that the queen doesn't face hardships like the normal person; she refuses to bleed with or for them. This is evidenced by the fact that she didn't even mourn for her parents with her own sister, let alone her own country."

"Aie! Kingdoms were abuzz for three years that she did not show up to the funeral because of a _frozen heart_. You shake your head? I tell the truth."

"If Arendelle had second thoughts about the heir being the _Ice Queen _of the_ Prophecy_, then she wouldn't be wearing a crown."

The red-haired noble with the performed manner spoke up: "The..._Prophecy_?"

"Why, don't you know it?"

His smile became stiff. He looked down and tapped on his wineglass, before looking up at them with the eyes of a golden retriever. "I regret to say that I don't, Admiral."

Ugh, God this guy's gross.

"I see." The man speaking looked curiously uncomfortable. "Well, before a king was ever crowned on this land, there was an ancient prophecy about a ruler with a _frozen heart_ dooming Arendelle with _dark magic_. How, or when this ruler would be born, was never disclosed."

"That's because it was nothing more than a bloody folklore," a captain sneered. "_Dark_ magic — can you even imagine? A magic show of snowflakes shooting out at some sovereign's will like a little fairy? The whole image is utterly ridiculous; whoever thought the thing up was clearly drunk at the time of thinking it!"

"That may be so!" A man laughed. "That may be so; however, we are all foreigners to this land, so for its natives, it probably holds a 'ridiculous' amount of credibility to them. Did you hear the children's choir before the queen entered the ballroom? They sang about the prophecy and its origins like it was part of a Christmas carol."

"All the more proof that it is not taken seriously by its locals." The barker lifted the wine to his lips. "Ridiculous, I tell you. Utterly _ridiculous_." He paused to curl his lip and bob his head in mockery of the loony direction the conversation had taken. "_Dark_ magic. Why, I should've brought my wooden _skis._"

Now, here's a _story_. I weighed up the corner-conversations taking place over wine and custards behind the curtains of the patio, listening for more backstory and clues, and found bulletin points in plenty:

(•) The queen's parents were killed at sea.

(•) Her parents forbade her from coming out of the castle for a decade_ (there's something disturbing about this)_.

(✭) The sapphire on her neck is worth half a planet.

(✭) Her future Prince Consort will inherit the king's gold.

(•) And, last but not least, her guests do not completely like her.

They liked her blondness, her posture, her poise―and the men have ogled her hips surreptitiously, though none knew how to receive her. Some were choking on their own spit with love for her, but the peasants smiled with bated breath. They knew they admired her, modest and maidenly as she was, yet she was far too removed to be embraced without awkward arms. They stomached her sister; the third act; the circus sideshow; the easy read. However, when reading the queen becomes akin to reading small print after rumors of _emotional detachment_, commoners begin to question her capacity to be their _Lady Godiva. _After all, she might not ride naked for their oppressions.

"Do you still favor the piano, Your Majesty? Your father would tell us that you were quite the prodigy when you were — what was it? — no older than eight?"

"Oh my, how wonderful! A true artist on the throne!"

A humble smile at the floor and a squeeze on the wrist conveyed the perfect image of modesty, but I found it rehearsed. "Eight exactly, Your Grace, but my..._interests_ unfortunately didn't make it past age nine."

It was a subliminal joke, but the swooning women laughed anyway.

"A pity, then! A pity, don't you think?"

"No, not at all." Her shaking head is followed by an almost tired quirk of the lips, complete with dimples and a cut breath as she smiles. "Just a...part of life's _evolutionary_ stages. All childhood interests must have their season, after all."

Eloquent, but depressing. Nodding at the former, the noble women attempt to lighten the mood:

"You know, now that I'm what they call a "woman," sometimes I think I should like to keep my childhood interests for a summer more!"

"Nonsense. Your father wouldn't have let you, and I, as your mother, wouldn't have went against him."

"But I could've made a fine pianist for you. Perhaps if you had let me finish my lessons, I could've been father's _Ludwig van Beethoven_."

"Perhaps, but it wasn't done on my part; your father was the one who sold your piano after your twelfth birthday."

"So you took a passive stance? I know you couldn't exactly start a war for me, but women should always side with each other ― don't you agree, Your Majesty?"

The queen's eyes were running along the floor as her counterparts tittered and laughed. Her hands were doing that caterpillar-curl again, the one where she looks like she wants to curl up into a fetus position, before she straightened her elbows and folded them back in front of her.

—"Enjoying the play?"

I jumped, almost spitting up my wine. My catty intruder is none other than a middle-aged woman whose name I'm too scared to know. The rock on her neck says it all, while the lady herself oozes wisdom and egotism in collateral measure, bidding me to "come closer" at my own risk like some black widow in a cave.

"It's about to get dramatic." Her vibe is so strong that I half expect her to begin a tarot card reading on my future. "Leave this to me. You can be one of the side characters."

Then this is the worst casting gig I've ever been to. Couldn't you at least give me the manuscript before you start catapulting weird roles at strangers?

"What do you say?"

I sipped my wine and said skittishly: "Sorry, but I don't act."

"Not even for commissioners?" She blinks like a deer.

I cracked a charming smile. Was it forced, you ask? Oh yes. "Not even for kings. I'm not exactly the biggest fan of plays, either."

"Oh? But you were watching the queen the way one watches _Hamlet_."

I cleared my throat and looked to the ceiling with a pointed finger. "I was ― just _admiring_ the architecture. Arendelle's aesthetic taste is simply _splendid_."

She looked from me to the crowned blonde. "Undoubtably; no better time for its grand opening."

I scratched the side of my nose and chuckled nervously.

"Though, I wonder how she feels about being seen that way." She cocked her head at me, scarlet lips curving into an..._over_-friendly smile that really should've been my cue to bail.

"Seen that way?" I wasn't catching on; was this a part of a riddle?

Just as I thought I could see the queen looking for someone over the toupees of dignitaries, she left her father's throne and joined..._people_. Stop the carriage; _Mother Teresa_ has stepped off her altar. Guests bowed to her when they mistook her attention for being on them, and she bowed back with that same coy smile she's got saved for everyone, passing through "like a unicorn" among villagers, each of whom held their breaths for as long as they could. Even from here, she doesn't blend in with her own people. There's this strange, though arresting gap between her etheral appearance and their mundane ones.._. _

I sipped my wine as I ogled the queen. "Did the, uh..._architecture_ bring you to Arendelle as well?" I stopped to give this _refined lady_ a smirk from the edge of my glass.

Surprisingly, she didn't one-up me. "Hopes for a family reunion did."

You don't say? Well, good luck with that.

"Can I request your name, my good fellow?"

Before I could even complete a thought, the queen's gaze intersected mine like a boat hitting the wrong dock, and she stopped shining her smile around the room to try and read me as I had tried to read her.

...

...

Are we telegraphing each other? I don't speak Morse Code, so this is going to get lost in translation.

I stretch my collar and force a half-smile at Her Majesty, raising my glass as a salutation. Her eyes squeeze up like they do when she's uncomfortable. She doesn't know how to react; she's trying to choose a face — a smile — albeit a strained one — with the decline of her chin to substitute a bow.

I return.

She looks away.

I look away.

The end.

...

Well, hell.

She didn't _even_ try to undress me with her eyes.

It's no wonder suitors are making bonfires back here; she has the power to make the entire male race feel like flowerpots on a patio.

"Did you hear me?"

_'D'oh, good grief.'_ I turned to face the older woman at my side. For whatever reason, she's smiling at me like a playful kitten, but her pretense is better suited for a coquettish young girl than a woman pushing forty, so it's giving me an upset stomach.

"Just a moment ago, I had asked for your name."

And I'll bet _Corona's jeweled tiara_ that you've spent the evening sizing up male candidates to devour.

"Wouldn't you lose all fascination in me if I told it to you? After all, '_the commonest thing is only fascinating if one hides it'_―"

"―_'Because a mist makes everything wonderful.'_ Indeed...however, the women have been going around about a wealthy foreigner with _sun-kissed_ skin for the past month. Yet no one is invited to his..._private_ property? This man who shows up out of the blue? It sounds like a very lonely life, but the man himself carries a mist behind him even after his introductions."

Are you trying to weave a web around me, Madam? "You can express all the disbelief you want," I played, "but I prefer to keep my private life private. The silence is really therapeutic, and I've got a whole floor to myself for meditation."

She guffawed. "You're a riot after all."

Evidently a snake-charmer.

"Well, then I suppose living all alone must be a very peaceful adventure for a witty charmer such as yourself. However, _you_ must be here because of a woman."

"Pardon?" Had I known I'd be an extra curriculum, I wouldn't have come here in the first place.

"It's just that you don't take me for the sort of man who'd spend his free time at coronations unless you were trying to get into a woman's good graces."

"Perceptive." Too. "Unfortunately, my partner is entertaining her father." That was only half the story, but she didn't need the whole plot.

"So you're not here to buy a wife?"

"The women I like don't wear price tags on their necks, just pearls. Besides, a ball and chain on my foot isn't exactly my idea of 'high-end glamor.'"

"So you don't like anyone you exploit sharing what you own, and you believe emotional investments are unnecessary."

"...Sure, why not? That's a pretty decent rundown of the New Order."

She laughed. "Let me introduce myself." A hand was extended. "My name, is _Madel Lodveig_."

Yeesh. Gesundheit. That's one unfortunate mucous disease.

"I know you've heard of it."

News to me.

"No? Not even once?"

"Unfortuantely, it doesn't ring a bell."

"Then I hope your feet are quicker than your memory."

The crowd was clearing for two dance partners and I joined the migration at very the last minute, heading south of the ballroom with _she-who-must-not-be-named_. Although Her Majesty was the only one left standing, this made it possible for her to pinpoint the person she was looking for, and that person was―

Princess Anna.

The easy read.

Because fate was funny like this, her sister was dancing on my side of the room with the same man who had started the verbal lynching between her suitors. She was beaming up at him with that _mental illness_ called love, while his eyes were following Her Royal Majesty.

Wait.

What's wrong with this picture?

I don't know how many lobotomies he performed on this girl, but the princess didn't notice a thing.

Now, love is the leading cause of brain tumors, so I _can_ empathize with every one of its patients, but let me say here and now that the prince was not one of them. To say he was in love with the queen would be putting it wrongly; on the contrary, his big green peepers had the look of a boy who had just found a junebug to stick his pins into.

I didn't even realize his white stag was now standing a nice foot away from me ― gazing at him with the same apprehension I had ― but there was a moment when she looked at me ― and I looked at her ― and my intuition reflected in her face. Everyone around me suddenly sounded like they were talking underwater, and everyone around her fell into a blurry greyscale, leaving her superposed on the background like a three-dimensional image in green and magenta. The expression on her face made her look small and fragile to me, while the man with her sister looked hollow and distorted, like some staticky image with no real face...

...And then this strange feeling of dread crept up the back of my throat, as if a crown of flower petals had crumbled into black ash between my lungs...

"...Evening."

I just had a feeling that you were going to die.

"...Do you like chocolate fondue?"

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_'Her eyes are two glossy sunsets out of a few trillion that have set before; w__hen she shuts them __no one __blinks.' __**~ intricately-ordinary, "Something Lacking This Way"**_


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